Hospital

in a hospital

Doors moan like lovers, as compassion flows like

sick over scrubbed floors, the controlled circumstance of pity.

Corridor shufflers look lost as refugees, concerned and clumsy

with frames, bags of black blood follow them like pets.

(They are not allowed to find sleep in the ground, under air and

pine needles).

A place of decay under pastel, a maze for Jesus the daughter

of God, for ghosts and unlikely saints.

Let them go softly into the night.

Let them pass through the thick window glass to where the others are.

Reviews

[Mark D]

Really moving and heartfelt piece of writing.

I must say that I did find it a bit upsetting (we have all been there). I guess there is truth in your poem that couldn't be said in the circumstances in which the notions are thought.

I think this is really amazing writing and truly beautiful and sad.

I don't know exactly why but I am not sure that the title does the poem justice. I almost never clicked into it because of the name but cant explain why. Your words are so good and strong that the title is not needed to explain the setting.. To me a title of "let them pass" or "a place of decay" would fit but it is most likely just a personal thing. Sorry if you take this as negative it is not intended as such. I thought it so feel it right to say.

Again, this is wonderful

[Pax]

i find this really hauntingly sad. a bit of horror. great work

[FJ Davis]

Not all shufflers who wander those corridors yet belong "where the others are."
Some recover, and rejoin life for a relatively long time. Make no mistake, however, hospitals are dangerous places.
Still, no blanket decisions need be made.
But the picture you paint, Leslie, certainly does portray a great deal of truth; exhibiting it well, and quite artistically.
My thought regarding death has always been somewhat Native American (and reflective of your third stanza). That being, to wander up into the mountains, or out into a forest, and just sit under a tree.
I fear, however, it's probably going to be some corridor-shuffling and death with the much-reviled whimper in a freakin' hospital bed.
Maybe I'll be lucky; die with my boots on.

[Hidden Happiness]

the fourth stanza is my favourite...a really beautiful poem and well i kinda feel sad for thpse hopeless pale people who have no soul left inside but are still tied down by beeping machines:-|...but anyway good job:-).

[emmajoy]

Oh my, the hair's standing up on the back of my neck, am as tense can be; what a tragic atmosphere you've re-created here .. the lines,

'Corridor shufflers look lost as refugees, concerned and clumsy ~ with frames, bags of black blood follow them like pets.' I saw them immediately.

This is a short post but could be a tome, you've created a place of horrors, a tragedy so many of us know - and how true: ' Let them go softly into the night. Let them pass through the thick window glass to where the others are.'

You've ripped out my guilty opinion that if they were four legged creatures .. things would be so different.

[Dr. Wood ?]

see, this is what I call REAL poetry...it lies on the edge of understanding...just in reach.....tantalising.....Great stuff

[Sami Khalil]

Doors moan like lovers.
I like the concept.
Well penned

[Droll Prole]

This piece causes me to think of those hopeless ones that are terminal, still clinging to life long after they want to be or maybe those down on the geriatric ward. Haunting.

[Emily B]

the weight of the words, the want - the surroundings are palpable